Time Once Upon Us
by heroictype
Summary: Fakir tries to start his new story, a task more difficult than he originally reckoned, and soon an old tale is pulled in an unexpected direction. Princess Tutu returns to her origin, but a Spider crawls with her, to spin his web of tragedy anew.
1. Chapter 1

Fakir drove his hand mercilessly across the paper. The pen looped out each letter as he pushed it, hopping between words with all the grace of a dancer. However, this elegance escaped him. Frustration clouded his mind and made the cold ink woven from his fingers no more emotionally engaging than ink stamped mechanically by a press. For some reason, it was easier for him to force his whole body through a complex routine than it was for him to drag a feather along the page. He had not worried about it at first. When he had begun, he assumed it was okay that there was no real flow of ideas into words. He had even saved each scrapped page for possible reference, determined that now, he could even make his failures be of use to himself.

That had not been proven true. Time only made the ideas themselves harder to come by. He used them up, but he could not push them to a real end. This was supposed to be an art. He was aware of that, and it brought a self-directed scowl to his face. There was nothing here. The black writing rejected his best efforts, endless training refused to perfect his thoughts as it had done for his dance. He waited for himself to start one day, and be able to finish, like he had finally gathered the stamina through his perseverance. He wished he could actually shed blood, sweat, and tears over this. Such things would be sadly impossible, unless he added several ill-placed blades, a fireplace in the study, and onions to his efforts.

The ridiculousness of this led him to finally throw the pen down. He crushed its clatter under the scraping of the chair, pushing it abruptly away from his desk. There was nothing he wanted at that moment other than to be out of the cramped study. No, out of the house. The smell of flowers and grass would erase the scent of ink, and the clarity of the pond would help more than anything else could.

By the time he stepped out along the dock, he did feel much better, though a persistent frown kept him as the sole cloud on this sunny day. A strange desire rose to remove his shoes and dangle his feet into the pond. Still, it was too soon for him to permit himself full relaxation. He could relax when he had truly accomplished something. He settled for kneeling at the edge and staring at the horizon. Yet his gaze was more distant than that. He was indeed trying to envision somewhere far away, somewhere that didn't really exist yet. Not that he would want it to exist. That had to be the last thing he wanted, or else he feared the goal might overtake him. He stiffened, forcing a shudder into stillness. It wasn't as if he didn't want to create something, because that could be his first success. This would be his true path, not one he was written into. But going about it was so dangerous. If he had failed at mastering the sword, why should he think to master the mightier pen? As he mulled over such sticky questions, a slight yellow duck emerged from the other side of the water, smoothly kicking her way over to him.

She pulled herself up with a few wingbeats, quite literally aflutter with happiness, only to subdue a delighted greeting into a faintly concerned "Quack...?" Duck could not miss the dark dullness in Fakir's eyes. It was a relief when he looked down, and she saw that his eyes reflected her, instead. Whatever dwelt in them a moment ago was not being insistent on hanging around for the moment. He didn't smile, but that was normal. The tension in his spine gave way so he could reach down and offer a piece of bread to her. She appeared to reward his efforts with a much more cheerful "quack!" She even extended her wings, beating the air into currents that matched her usual excited state. In truth, while the bread was something she enjoyed, it was not the most important reason for happiness that Duck saw. Fakir was able to guess at what was, knowing her as he did. The knowledge bit at him; the idea of making her unhappy unnecessarily wasn't something he could stop from worrying over himself.

He could not push those thoughts away. He could, however, stop her from upsetting herself again.

"What, are you that excited about me feeding you?" He smirked. "I hope not. You look like you've been eating more than enough lately."

Her outraged squawks echoed from the water, and then there was a splash as she took off from the surface. He held up his hands, though he made no serious attempt at driving the bird away while she flapped noisily in his face. She subsided onto the water once she was apparently satisfied that he had suffered enough for her indignity. Turning away, she stuck her beak high in the air and ruffled her feathers fussily back at him. Fakir did not react to this, short of a faintly unimpressed look for her posturing. She felt it against her, and the plume atop her head drooped accordingly. She twisted her neck around as far as it would go to narrow her eyes at him, responding with unusual eloquence.

"Quack! Quack, quack, qua..."

She trailed off, her anger melted into a decidedly duckish pout under his firm expression. He blinked and offered an amused snort. "Just what were you trying to do, idiot?" She almost started to protest again, but that sound had been so close to a laugh. A rare thing to come from him. She thought that she might as well try to make this last. She paddled up to the dock again, beaming as well as one could with a beak.

"Never mind. I doubt you actually had any idea what you were doing," Fakir speculated bluntly, though while he spoke, he did extend a hand to brush lightly over her head. "I guess I should leave you to your cluelessness." He stood and turned away before he could see her wings lift against his departure, but he did not ignore her pleading quacks as she had thought he would. "I have work to do. All you do is drift around your pond all day, so don't complain."

She was one of the people his sword had failed in the past. It was Duck who had saved him, and everyone else, and she was the last one he could give anything. He had no right to be here, not until he repaid her, and yet he was at something of a loss at how to do that. There was someone he was familiar with, however, who probably could come up with a more efficient solution. So Duck could get what she deserved. And, a small part of himself muttered, so he could have something he wanted, with her. He refused unflinchingly to indulge that. He had spoken to silence her.

Fakir, it seemed, was just determined to shatter all of Duck's expectations today. She watched him leave, an oddly pensive sensation sinking in her heart. He may have answered her, but she wished he hadn't done so in that voice she hadn't heard in so long. His tone changed so quickly that she was unable to place it right away. It took a few furiously swum circles for her to get her mind moving before she knew. That voice was way too similar to one that had warned her to stay away from Mytho, all those months ago. Coming now, after it had been so long since she had heard Fakir's voice at all, it was especially jarring.

"Quack!" Duck muttered to herself, glancing in the direction of the cottage. The place Fakir had been spending all of his time lately. In the beginning, Fakir was almost constantly out on the dock, writing and watching her swim in the sun. And when the sun failed in the evening, he had simply brought a lamp out to continue. With the passing of time, he had worked outdoors less and less, growing angry at whatever was on the paper and dragging himself inside with his work after only a few hours. He certainly did not appear to want or need her company as he wrote, or ever, for that matter.

Well, he would get her company, whether or not he wanted it. She nodded to herself, proclaiming slowly, "Quaaaaaa... Quack!" The water exploded around her this time as she came away from the pond. She managed the ascent without undue trouble, her wings straining swiftly to keep her aloft until she found a windowsill under her feet. Unfortunately, the slick webs rejected the surface before she could look into Fakir's study. A loud quack slipped from her beak as she fell, and her wings were only able to clumsily stop her from a total crash. She waited dizzily below the window for Fakir to poke his head out, snap at her, and pick her up with more tenderness than most people would think possible. Then she would help him, somehow. She would be with him, which had to mean she could at least do more than before. It didn't really matter what that would be, she would get to that later.

But perhaps five minutes later, Duck was fairly sure that Fakir had no intention of showing himself. She cooed, impatience mingling with nervousness. If he was so involved in something that he saw no need to reprimand her for being noisy, she doubted it was anything good. She caught the wind again with a determined hop, this time maintaining her balance long enough to look in. Fakir's piles of papers were there, sheets both clean and scrawled-on, and the half-empty pot of ink. Everything Fakir needed was there, but he was not.

She pulled away from the window much more steadily than before, launching herself into the air. She wouldn't let this complicate the situation. Her goal was the same as before, she just needed to go a little farther than she had originally believed. She already had an idea of where to search. If Fakir was going to go anywhere, Goldcrown Town was probably his only option. She didn't stop to consider that trying to find a single person in that town had been hard enough for a human, and so was likely to be more challenging for a duck.

* * *

There was a single, solid knock on the door. Autor sighed heavily.

He wasn't used to receiving guests, and that was how he preferred it. Well, one may have come, but that did not mean he had to properly welcome the interruption, or acknowledge it at all. He did not spare the door a glance, much less make any move to admit the visitor. He expected another knock or two, and smiled frostily as he pondered whether they would be bothered enough to call for him, or just give up. As it happened, his guest was not waiting for either option. The door slid open without a reasonable pause for a response.

"What- Oh, it would be you. I was wondering where you'd been." Autor gave his glasses a businesslike adjustment. "But if I'm going to ask you about anything, I suppose it should be about why you're here now?" He sounded more impatient than curious, as if he had thought Fakir would come awhile ago.

Fakir did not miss the expectation. He also caught what was implied by it, that he would not visit Autor for any friendly chat, but out of need. It was an irritating sting in his pride, and that made it easier for him to stand his ground. "I have a question. It's nothing more than that, so don't get too excited." He was just daring Autor to try him.

"Fine. Go ahead and ask," Autor invited, neutrally enough. He was at least courteous enough to look away, not that it really concealed his faint smile.

"What do you have to start with to get a story to finish?"

"That's an incredibly broad question, you know. Of course, if you just try to whack at your thoughts, they'll be about as useful as decapitated soldiers." Autor could have been musing, but his tone was too pointed for that.

"Whatever. I don't need to know what not do here," Fakir snapped, crossing his arms. "How about you answer my question?"

"As I said, it's a very broad topic." Autor told him shortly. It looked as if he was being more thoughtful for the moment, deliberately cutting off further inquiries. He believed he had the best answer already, and might have stated as much, if he had not wanted to watch the former knight. He may have grasped Fakir's general motives, but he needed more observation to draw additional conclusions.

Fakir grimaced, forcing himself to stay quiet. There was no point to demanding answers when he was going to get them anyway. He did, however, keep a focused glare on the other boy. He had not come to entertain any academic, or even artistic, curiosity, but to complete a mission. Having most of his entire life centered on one task made him keenly aware of time, how one should spend and save it. Then again, he reflected dourly, maybe his own experiences in that area were not such a good pool to draw from, after all.

"If you've had enough of your usual mental consternation, we can end that now," Autor lifted his chin, a superior spark shining through his glasses.

Fakir jolted his attention back into place. "Well?"

"You tell me, what makes a story?"

"Conflict," Fakir replied, ignoring Autor's poorly disguised interest in his opinion.

"That's right. Conflict is an important part of stories, which you know very well... But what about the people involved in those stories? Do you think a boring cast could have held the attention of someone as... picky as Drosselmeyer?"Autor mimicked Fakir's posture, folding his arms, though he was much more relaxed. His smile had drifted into an open smirk. It wasn't mocking, more strangely self-satisfied. He had the air of a great detective, one who had solved his most puzzling crime.

Fakir narrowed his eyes, getting the sense that Autor had considered a more respectful word to describe Drosselmeyer's skill. The jab was still strong enough without Autor's lingering, if pragmatic, admiration for the author showing. He shrugged,"I don't know."

"Then, of course you can't write anything!" Autor exclaimed, his exasperation flaring. "The prince, the princess, the knights and thieves... Those are just titles. There's going to be more to them than their station."

"What are you expecting?" Fakir said, with an irritated sigh. Autor's outburst had merely pointed out something obvious to him, on the surface. It had also resembled an accusation. He was hardly in a position to argue, but he would have liked to know what Autor was trying to pin him with.

Autor sighed, too, deflating. "Look, when you walk outside, you don't develop an attachment to everyone you see. But you have a few close friends, or at least people you know more about, who would care about if something happened. That the kind of person you have to write about."

"What?" Both Autor and Fakir himself knew that there was nothing confusing about that answer. It left a sour taste in Fakir's mouth, for some reason, and he had not been able to avoid questioning it. An instant later, he shook his head. "No, forget it. That should be enough."

"You're right, it should," Autor frowned, far from pleased himself. His mouth opened blankly, and stayed that way until he spoke. He appeared almost startled by his own sincerity. "Good luck."

* * *

More hours than Duck could keep track of later, she still hadn't stopped to consider how difficult her task really was. She was puffing for breath, and her waddling had become noticeably shaky, but she pressed on. Her wings had not enjoyed the legwork, and her body was not any more fond of it now that it was literal. She kept marching up the street, of course, because borderline exhaustion was no good reason to stop her search. None at all. That was her genuine opinion, at any rate. Rather, that's what she would have thought if she paused long enough to recognize how tired she was.

She stepped out into an intersection, to find the open space was surprisingly dark. Sunset had lengthened the buildings' shadows, and for the first time, she did wonder how long she had been out. That feathery tuft flattened to hang between her eyes at the realization. She angled her wings oddly, pressing the tips against her sides, but trying to shove them out at the shoulders. A semblance of hands-on-hips. A child's display of frustration, not a duckling's. Her behavior attracted a few curious looks, particularly as people were having to step out of her way. She was no longer paying attention to where she was going, instead quacking under her breath about a boy who was silly and stubborn and did weird things just because he was _so stubborn_!

In fact, she said the last part out loud, an emphatic "Quack!" She was thankfully spared further attention, because she had stomped off down an alley. The brick swallowed her cry, and faintly more coherent line of thinking returned to her in the silence. There were many places she hadn't looked yet, especially since her search had not been exactly systematic. She just searched places she had known him to frequent before. After that, she wandered around the town, believing that she would happen across something. She was forgetting that "something" was often more inclined to happen across her.

A fresh shadow was pitched over her briefly, that of a figure crossing in front of the alley's last light. Fakir. She wondered at the cobblestones' resilience; they bore his intense stare while he clopped along. She was sure his intensity would have singed her feathers.

In a somewhat bizarre twist, her first action following that nervous notion was to run at him, quacking rabidly.


	2. Chapter 2

You know how long it's been since I wrote fanfiction? I completely forgot any sort of... author's note thing. Oh, and Princess Tutu and all related characters do not belong to me.

But then, I'm not sure how much to say. I played intentionally with the whole "pen is mightier than the sword" cliché last time. I didn't realize that something similar showed up here until after I wrote it, and... There's actually a totally different reason for it. But I'm not going to explain what that is, hopefully that will be clear later, or is clear now. I just hope it's not painfully obvious...

Also, I love using the word "pet" that way. It's got a cute meaning.

* * *

Duck scrambled after Fakir the second she noticed him. He was not in a hurry, and she had to take full advantage of that. There was absolutely nothing he could do to get away from her now, he didn't stand a chance. She leaped as she emerged from the alley, catching just enough air to push forward to Fakir. He had heard the quacks coming; he hadn't wanted to believe it, but his stride broke to turn him right into Duck's charge.

The impact rammed shock onto his face, while her quacking was abruptly muffled by the beakful of his shirt she had claimed. She tugged at it, wings beating into a blur as she tried to yank him around. She was taking him home right now. She entertained the wild thought of her possible victory when she felt him resist. If he was resisting, she had to be doing something. Her head jerked, what would have been a self-directed nod in a more comfortable position. Though, in truth, it was still too soon for her to be pleased with herself.

"What in the world are you trying to do, idiot?" His hand wrapped around her wings, and he lifted the tiny, trapped bird up to a slit-eyed inspection. A conspicuous bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face.

Duck released him, and the stream of squawks grew in volume once again.

"Shut up!" He hissed, then took a deep breath. "Why did you come? Or more importantly, why didn't you think about what would happen if you got lost somewhere? If I hadn't found you now?" He added quickly, because he believed she was still familiar with the town, but if luck hadn't brought them together before she had wandered back out in the forest again... There were plenty of predators who would love a meal of clumsy duckling.

She shook her head, like that would dissipate his questions, and began to gesture furiously with her beak. It tipped in every direction, leaving him to figure out what she meant by it. The only possibility he could gather was that she was detailing the expansiveness of her search, flailing in the directions she had ventured.

"No. I don't care how far you searched, it was stupid. You didn't find me, it was the other way around." He said, and set off again, still holding her close. He was beginning to receive looks for speaking to a duck, and he was in no mood to put up with that. Especially not since Duck was being deliberately difficult, matching the pet he was in with one of her own. She was shoving her wings against his grip, punctuating her struggles with the occasional quacks, and contemplating pecking at his fingers. The last, she could not quite bring herself to do, as seriously as she considered it. She supposed he was worried, and not just about her, so she would spare him the sore hands. However, she was worried about him, too, and if he wasn't going to appreciate that, then he hadn't earned an easy time. It was silly, she knew, but so was he.

Fakir did not relent until they passed through the town gates, under a finished night. He pressed her sternly, "Do you promise not to go wandering off for no good reason anymore?"

"Quack!" She snapped, but she nodded and immediately went still. He placed her gently on the ground, and kept pace with her as she waddled along.

"Good," he paused, then murmured, "Thank you."

She stopped, tilting her head up at him, and grinned with her oddly large blue eyes. Her happiness flared in them to match the glow of the reflected moon, and she made a quiet cooing sound. Placated, she strutted on down the path ahead of him. He stayed to watch her, brow furrowed above the neutral line of his mouth. The anger had faded into something pale, which dwelt just at the back of his mind and was warm, not burning. Unbeknownst to him, his cheeks flushed. Whether it was from that faded feeling or the day's exertion was impossible to tell.

It barely required a few steps on his part to catch up, as she almost seemed to be going slowly on purpose. She kicked up dust, tripping over herself for her efforts, and walked backward at times to stare at him. Now that he was here again, she wasn't going to rush. A nice, leisurely stroll would be great for both of them, she was sure of it. Yes, she knew he would appreciate it later, even if he didn't think so.

"What?" Fakir finally asked, driven by curiosity and uncertainty alike. Her stare was not what he would have labeled as precisely unpleasant, but it set him on edge, anyway.

The query was not something she expected from him. She quacked loudly, though it was not one of her usual attempts at an answer. That had been a startled cry, stumbling from her as she took a worse tumble onto her back. Her feet waved in the air, so fast that she might have been trying to fly with them. She had knocked herself onto her side and wriggled to her feet before Fakir could do anything. Since there was nothing else for him to do, he laughed. As she shook herself more vigorously in the vain hope of getting the dust off, he simply shook his head. "If it's that hard for you to think and walk at the same time, don't think. You don't most of the time, do you?"

She faced him sourly, voicing a strung-out "Quaaaaaa..." She did not seem to approve of his teasing, and the feather on her head bobbed tensely, becoming much like a broken string from a violin in its final twangs.

He exhaled, an annoyed sigh. "Fine. If it's that big a deal, then don't walk." She was given no opportunity to protest as he bent down to scoop her up, a good deal more gently than before. She blinked several times, rapidly, but her vision was fine. There wasn't anything she could clear from it to make sense of this. He looked down into her eyes again, but the confusion made whatever else she might be feeling unreadable. She actually had better luck with reading him, because there was only the same chilled green as always, backlit with his peculiar intensity. Solid as steel, and too sharp to be done justice by some metaphorical knife.

She nestled into his arms, cooing gratefully, and he carried her home, neglecting to issue a farewell when he deposited her carefully by the pond.

* * *

Duck had circled endlessly. The stars lit her path, and they would last longer than the lamp she could see in the distant window of the study. She wasn't going to pressure herself to sleep while they both still had light to use. Once he didn't need his light anymore, and she saw it go out, then she would glide into her nest. It was shrouded in reeds, which would shield her from the light, as well.

Her head hung, a mopey sadness creeping over her, until her mood dropped her head low enough for her beak to break the surface of the water. It refreshed her, reminded her what she was doing, and propelled her halfway into the air. Her head and the feather atop it straightened to be perfectly perpendicular to the water. Under the surface, the pond was churned into a frenzy; she swam at a visibly dizzying speed. It was all well and good if she wanted to stay up with Fakir, but he would never see it. The potential of a symbolic gesture did not appeal to her in the slightest.

Yet she doubted there was a lot she could for him. She failed to notice how her mere presence did have some effect on him, perhaps a positive one, but she was correct in assuming that her being there was not enough, either way. She didn't suppose that quacking repeatedly, right into his ear, would help matters much. Though, that she was tempted to try just because he deserved it, for being so stubborn about this whole thing. She was sure everything was fine, and he should calm down and spend time outside with her again. Maybe he'd been after a change of scenery before, when he went into the house, but it was time to change back. And his story was something she looked forward to reading, so it would be easier for everyone if she didn't have to quack at the door later when she wanted to have a look. All she would need to do would be to fly to him, when he called her to see that he had at last perfected his writing.

Writing. His writing, that was what he was doing now to release his thoughts and ideas, that was how he was seeking to communicate with people. Everyone who would read what he wrote would know his words as well as if they had heard him talk. She backpedaled suddenly, nearly proving it physically possible to trip while swimming. She could not speak to Fakir, but it had to be fitting if she could find a way to write to him. He would see her words, and though only he would see them, that was fine. He was the only one who she wanted to understand her.

She would go inside tomorrow. She didn't want to wait, but as the whirl of her inspiration slowed, tiredness wound a sturdy thread in her limbs. A quack-laden yawn passed over the water, telling Fakir to please wait a little longer. Though he could not hear it, she was irrationally confident that he would receive her hope.

* * *

He peered at the window, wondering if she had stayed awake. He hoped she hadn't. She was too stubborn about things, however, so she probably had. By being aware of a problem, she would by nature seek to solve it. He understood that nature well; she could be as stubborn as she wanted, but the problem remained his.

His gaze returned to the blank paper on the desk. The window was too dark to see from, while the paper was too white to see anything on. It didn't make a difference where he directed his attention. He set his elbows down on either side of the paper, bracing his forehead against his hands to stare straight at his target. It wasn't that he had even attempted to write after he came back, and was now drained of words. He was waiting. Leafing through Autor's advice in his head. Instead of just lashing out this time, he thought he might find a purpose for what he had been told.

An idea had occurred to him as much as he disliked it. That Drosselmeyer truly had excelled in crafting characters above all else. It had to be rare for characters to gain such strength that they could oppose the force controlling them. Mytho became his own Prince Charming, not a tragic hero; Rue had found a place for herself when none should have existed; the Knight was certainly still in one piece, if not a knight; and Duck had not vanished. The last character caught him for a moment, summoning memories of two very different figures. One was unsteady on her feet, hardly able to keep her balance when both were on the ground, but she didn't let the shakiness of her dancing stop her. The other spun and skipped lightly, without faltering. Each of her motions was pristine, from the grandest leap to the slight circle of her hands as she invited someone to dance.

It was strange, because Duck hadn't been the character who was written. She had shaped her character, to the extent that he could not see so much as a shadow of Princess Tutu in her, and more than that, he had never been able to. As soon as he had found out her true identity, Princess Tutu was another form, the unreal storybook princess. In the end, the girl, clumsy, cheerful, and real, had emerged; and she was Duck. Technically, a bird, not a girl. But with her ways as set as they were, that was quite alright. She came off as herself in any form other than Princess Tutu's.

He frowned, sitting up with such speed that his back slammed into the chair. His hands rested on the edge of the desk for a moment, then one of them reached out for the quill pen. Holding those two different images in his mind, he started writing the unreality.

"_She was a princess of rare beauty and rarer grace. Her arms seemed to lift her like wings as she jumped..."_

The bottom of the page came before he expected it, and he paused to reread his work. Upon finishing, he lay the pen down with more force than was necessary. His hand was pressed into the desk over it, sending light tremors up his wrist. They did not travel farther than that, as they stemmed simply from the pressure he applied to the wood. His eyes were narrowed, critically, even thoughtfully, but not in frustration.

He read it again, and plucked a new sheet of paper out. The freshly completed document was pushed aside gently, where he could still see it. He started again, "_She was a princess of rare beauty and rarer grace. But more than that, a light seemed to shine around her..." _Short as it had been, he would have held the first page up as a good draft. It was far from what he wanted, but he could say with a degree of certainty what his goal for it was. How to reach it was more chancy, but, he told himself hotly, he would get there. He almost nodded to himself, spurred by the energy determination had given to him, but he restrained the impulse. That energy went into his hand, instead, which latched around the quill; a hawk's talons sealing a sparrow in their power.

He stopped only moments before the lamp flickered out, doused in darkness as he gathered his materials together. His own yawn was stifled in a wash of lingering adrenaline. He failed to recall how long it had been since anything had invigorated him on this level. The sensation of the pen in his hand remained, and though he didn't know what it was, there was something enticingly familiar about it.

He didn't want to wait, but he could practice this technique more tomorrow, and intended to do so. For now, he had to acknowledge a need to rest. He spun from the desk, and prepared himself for bed. As he lay waiting for sleep to come, his final thought was of how Duck would view his story.

* * *

_Drosselmeyer's eyes widened from a lazy, half-lidded position at the sound of gears turning._

_"Hmmmm?" He hummed. It was quiet now, but he had turned swiftly enough to catch exactly what one normally would have thought to see: gears turning. Briefly, some story had been set in motion. Whatever it was, it had lacked the necessary power to push the clockwork for any length of time. A frown flashed on his features, morphing with unnatural speed into a grin as he leaned forward and shoved his face right up to the metal pieces. He appeared to be trying to wheedle a response from them. "What was that about? Is someone being naughty? Uzura!"_

_"What, what, zura?" The child clomped out from somewhere. She pouted softly, unhappy at being taken away from an imaginary audience in the middle of her best concert ever. She would have another best concert ever tomorrow night, of course, so one need not worry overmuch for her. It was not like she had actually let Drosselmeyer interrupt her, as even without her audience, she continued to beat her drum._

_"Did you wind up a story?" His inquiry was laced with exaggerated patience, expecting an affirmative reply, and so, to be disappointed. She withdrew from his fingerpointing, shaking her head insistently._

_"I did not, zura! Why, zura?"_

_He blinked. "You didn't? Oh." With a dismissive wave, he elegantly evaded her question. "Never mind, child. Go wander off and play somewhere. I'm going to look into something..." A cloak swished, and he vanished, presumably off to some other area of their black, mechanical expanse. Uzura, who had no reason to be interested anymore, returned to her concert. She was not disturbed from it again that night, or for several nights after._


	3. Chapter 3

This... still seems really short, especially with as long as it took to write. I blame school, and some uncertainty. But it has some important set up, and things are set on their courses. All should be in place in about two more chapters!

I suppose a lot of this is musing... It all formed around a particular sentence that I wrote, and then that turned into thinking about how Fakir might struggle with writing for a while. Which is why there is so much focus on that, I suppose, because everything that will happen does extend from there. Hopefully, it's working out well. Please let me know what you think; the usual, read and review~

A note of clarification: It's personal opinion, but I believe that at least for the moment, Duck and Fakir would still think of Siegfried as "Mytho," whatever his name turned out to be. Just as a matter of familiarity, I guess.

Princess Tutu and all related characters do not belong to me.

* * *

_Each step sent blackness rippling around Fakir's feet, much like water. Like water. As he stared down, he could not find more than a simile of liquid below him. He had no idea what it actually was, and he didn't want to keep walking on it, because he had no way of knowing if the surface would continue supporting him. It was plain that he was not being given a choice in his path, however, and he had to fight a not-entirely-irrational fear that he would sink into a fate worse than drowning._

"_Oh, well, isn't this so exciting?" A drawl stretched over the plink of footsteps. Fakir stopped, that voice chilled him to the heart, but only annoyance was obvious on his face. Annoyance and pain, as though he was listening to nails on a chalkboard. _

"_What?" As Fakir said the word, it was a cutting demand for information, but he couldn't say for sure if that was how Drosselmeyer heard it. The echoes of the boy's voice were too loud, warped into fear and thrown back at him. _

"_Why, dear boy, I can tell what it is you attempt to do. You know..." Drosselmeyer grew into view, gaining color along with form. "Now that I'm here, I may as well-"_

"_You may as well leave," Fakir almost snarled. "Now. I'm not doing anything that would interest you." It was an honest answer, as far as he was concerned. He had no intention of writing the kind of story that would capture Drosselmeyer's attention, and if there was anything he had less intention of than that, it was allowing the author to lurk over his shoulder as he worked._

_Drosselmeyer blinked, rather taken aback by that. Then he burst out laughing, and the edges of his flat white teeth in that purely amused smile were more threatening than any hunter's grin. Fakir knew that the author would stain any manuscript he could get his ink-drenched hands on, even if only in an attempt to read it. "Why would you think I would offer you anything?" He sighed like the indulgent uncle who'd had one request too many made of him. "I'm only here to watch. It's only fitting for you to spin the beautiful story that I could not. I suppose that the older generation must yield to the fresh and fit youth, eventually." _

_Fakir eyed Drosselmeyer, anger boiling paradoxically in his cold tone. "Do I have to tell you again? Leave. You aren't going to get anymore entertainment out of us." _

"_Hmm? Us? What's this 'us?' You mean you and that duck, don't you? She's the only other one without a story to return to, especially with you trying to make your own story. You'll wander into it, become lost in your own creation's power. It will leave her all alone, won't it? But don't tell me there's nothing to see, because I've already seen it." Drosselmeyer leaned forward, hands clasped behind his back, and suddenly he was towering over Fakir. He plucked a fist out from behind his back, opening it directly before the boy's face. A pair of gears caught in each other there; their motion continuing smoothly regardless of gravity as they hovered above Drosselmeyer's palm. Fakir stared back with a face set like an oak carving, an art form beyond Drosselmeyer's skills to effect. He ignored the gears, speaking through gritted teeth, "I'm writing a story for people to read. It's not your toy or mine, and if you can't separate stories from reality, then you shouldn't be writing." _

"_Why not? Isn't it better to treat the world you spin as real? To give the people in it some properly deserved respect? They can do so much for you, if you just make them do it." The words skipped from Drosselmeyer, and if his voice hadn't been so deep, one might have said they were carefree enough to trill. Fakir hesitated, taking a step back, seemingly in some hope that the distance would help him decide what to do with this argument. The liquid beneath him rocked with waves and solidified, __cracking like glass under his weight, as if that brief pause alone had been enough to cost him all solidity in his head. Light spilled in from below, along with an odd crash and a series of noises that in no way resembled the shattering that he would have expected. Then he found himself in darkness once again; a different darkness, not utterly black but diluted with the sun peeking under the curtains._

* * *

Duck winced as a needle of morning light slipped through the reeds, piercing her dreams. Her quack was as weak as a drop of dew rolling to the ground, certainly nowhere near strong enough to dissuade the sun from engaging her further. It edged into her mind, and sewed wakefulness into a pattern of recollection. Today was going to be important, or more accurately, today was a day she couldn't mess up. There was something she needed to do, because whatever was bothering Fakir had obviously been in the way for a while, and she had to go in and put it back in its place. Concentration was etched in the tilt of her beak and the tightened feathers around her eyes as she set out noiselessly across the pond. She even had a plan for getting inside the house. She had taken care to think all of this through properly. Her feathers fluffed proudly as she stepped onto the shore, satisfied with the belief that Fakir would be surprised by what she could do. Really, she did not rush blindly into everything, even if he didn't know that.

After a waddling start, she took to the air. It was a short flight, but it seemed she had a knack for picking landing pads that were especially difficult for a duck; her webbed toes struggled with the narrow brim of the chimney. She was forced to use her wings to keep herself in position as she stared down the narrow passage, but she was quick to gather herself, and leaped in without visible hesitation. There was not enough space in the chimney for her to glide, so once again she relied on her wings, realizing that this had not exactly been the most well-thought out idea after all. The flapping knocked soot from the sides of the chute, and specks of it plumed around her

She tumbled out of the fireplace, and smeared blackness from her darkened feathers across the floor. Uncontrollable quacking rang out for an instant, in place of coughs and sneezes, until she jammed her wings over her beak. But they could not truly hold it shut, and they actually made her discomfort worse as she breathed soot from them through the slits in her beak. She practically threw them aside, a choked "qua..." pushing into the open before she wheezed a great breath of clean air and flopped onto the ground. Wincing, she lay still she waited to see if the short racket had woken Fakir, but if he had noticed anything, he certainly wasn't acting on it. She ignored the fact that she was still somewhat dazed to examine the room for the door that would lead her into the study. Her eager inspection swept from side to side, before finally snapping to a point directly across the room from herself. Oh. There it was. A closer look revealed a slit of space between the door and the frame. She slid her beak into the gap, and was able to pry it open wide enough for her to wiggle into the room. She poked her head through just in time to miss a lamp's flickering appear from beneath the entrance to Fakir's room.

Though her perspective was quite different, looking up at the desk from the floor instead of down at it from the window, this was unmistakably the place she wanted to be. The wooden panels creaked under her approach, and a flustered slant came over her eyes as it called to mind Fakir's teasing from the day before. She was quite aware that the sound spread from the age and quality of the floor's construction, rather than her diet, but only he could get into her head like that. That quiet, spiteless mockery really ruffled her feathers. Well, actually, she ruffled them herself when he flustered her like that, but she was resolute in her desire to preserve it for him, either way. She couldn't say why he did, but he would not be himself if he wasn't feeling well enough to tease her. And she knew he would never let some struggles with the written word dull his tongue, her belief in that never wavered for a second, but that didn't mean she couldn't make it a little easier for him to stay sharp.

She winged softly up to the desk, creating a trail from some of the soot that had clung to her, and settled at a free spot on the blotter. Several papers were still scattered on it, alongside the neatly dried quill pen and the sealed inkwell. There would be no using that, even if she had been able to pry the top out of the inkwell, she would probably only crush the feather of the quill trying to pick it up. She would have to use her beak to wield whatever utensil she found. The actual finding would wait. First things had to come first, obviously, and what did it matter if she found a pen without something to write on? At the same time, that was also a much easier issue to resolve. Her bill was not precise enough to drag a single piece of paper from the stack, and she ended up with a clump strewn over the sheets that Fakir had worked on, but she would only use one. Nothing would go to waste; she would just have to try to fix things later.

The pen she eventually dug up was the only one of its kind that Fakir had, most likely a kind of fountain pen. It had a bird perched on one end, which Duck was grateful for, as it was easier to nab for her than one with a round end would have been. Clutching it, she attempted to wave it in controlled shapes across the paper to write a message. Yet against her best efforts, it swerved out sketchy lines and meaningless curls. She kept at it, but the pen itself seemed to have less energy than she did, and snatched the opportunity of a particularly nasty curve to slip from her beak.

She glared at it, though before long her attention had turned from her usual flustered frustration back to the matter of how she was going to do this without the stupid pen. The inkwell caught her eye again, closed though it was. Perhaps it had been rejected too soon. There had to be something she could do to get the stopper out. A glance was enough for her to tell that she wouldn't be able to wedge her beak in to pry it off, and she deflated when nothing immediately came to mind aside from that.

"Are you even able to do anything that makes sense?" The tart demand came from the doorway.

"Quack-" Duck began, only for her own nervous gulp to slam the sound back into her throat. She turned in a series of small, fidgety jumps. Her head was pointed at the floor, but that sheepish gaze was stuck firmly on Fakir. With his face twisted up like that, he looked ready to grab something and bend it to match his expression. She wouldn't have been surprised if he chose her, but she held her ground.

He did not reach out for her, however, or make any move toward her. "I don't want to know why you're here. I just want you to not be here, understood?" When he finally marched forward, it was to open the window for her exit. He gave her an expectant glare, though this was naturally defied. Duck stayed right where she was. His eyes closed, exaggerating his patience even as a slight twitch in the veins at his temple betrayed its shortening.

Duck did not receive any motivation to leave from him. She craned her neck away; a new curious left her partially open-beaked as she peered at the products of Fakir's "work." The only explanation for why he was so eager to get rid of her that struck a faintly reasonable cord with her was that he was hiding the work. That wouldn't do, not a bit. She padded forward to bring the spindly letters into a clearer view, each step cautious, as if she was concerned about throwing off some precarious balance. She missed his eyes flashing with something, a brief pulse of energy that was not intense enough to be called fear. Ignoring the dark splotches on the bird, some of which were transferred to his hand, Fakir pulled her away from the papers and set her on the floor.

"Just get out of here," he muttered, and then attempted to ignore her. He took his seat, coolly adjusting the scattered workplace in order to begin. The stopper on the inkwell came free with a pop, and leaked the ink's artificial, wet scent into the study. Duck, who had not left her position on the floor, suddenly had a reason to do so. It could be that the morning's most truly important work would be salvaged, in the end. She darted around to the other side of Fakir's chair, the side nearer to the inkwell, with her wings stretched behind her. She looked like she was about to take a risky dive from a high cliff into some lake, enacting a youthful test of courage as she leaped in the opposite direction against gravity.

Fakir almost swatted at her, but stopped himself. He sighed crossly, but any words that were going to follow came out as a shout that was considerably less than coherent at first. It did manage to shape itself into a vague, "Don't!" But it was probably supposed to have been more than that.

Duck had dipped her beak into the ink, and stolen the paper in front of him for her message. It was sloppy past the point of being decipherable, with the exception of several pieces. A few letters here and there, and one word. "Can." She could have been talking about her ability, or his ability, or her belief in his, but it didn't matter. She was obviously holding onto her opinion that at least one of them could do something. The duck quacked, the sound more fitting for her small size than her usual boisterous noise. Her almost apologetic glance was soft and bright, something akin to light shining through water.

"_Well, I tried," _he could imagine her saying, _"But still, it's good, right?"_ He wasn't totally aware of his own longing, made apparent to him as what might have been nothing more than a rush of adrenaline. He couldn't have said it himself, but he would have taken the chance to trade all the words he might ever make if he could have heard hers. No such offer was made, and he would not be forced to act on similar willingness for a while yet, but he softened anyway. He placed a finger under her purple beak, frowning gently. "I hope you didn't swallow any."

Duck focused unsuccessfully on quelling the improbable blush that spread to show through her feathers. With a shake of her head to negate Fakir's concern, she waddled away.

"You should wash it off, anyway." He stood, expecting her to follow. She was quick to catch on, of course, but ended up having to rush awkwardly to account for the difference in stride lengths. In the bathroom, he plugged up the sink and let the water run to form a tiny pool for her. She hopped in, a pleased quack echoed by the cheerful splash of her landing. She immediately dunked her beak, spreading a black flower as the ink that was still wet came off easily. Fakir leaned against the bathroom wall. "When you're done, I'll leave the door to the pond open." The remark was absentminded; he was already glancing out, his thoughts in the study. She didn't understand why he was being so snippy today, more so than usual. It stood out even more plainly now that he had calmed down, but retained the distance of his temper. Her head shot up; her beak aimed like a dagger, while her eyes pierced deeper still, or tried to.

Fakir opened his mouth swiftly, most likely to snap at her again, the accusation striking him like hot iron. Something held him back, however, and she couldn't say what. At least he was paying attention again. "Give me three days. Then, if you want to see, I'll let you," he offered brusquely. She pondered it with care, taking the time to raise her wings at a strange angle and scrub at her beak. At last, she nodded. Despite his tone, he didn't really begrudge her a look. It was harder, after the kind of nightmare that he had, to exclude her from this. Yet this single audience member made his stomach dance with greater intensity than he ever had danced himself on stage, and given his subject matter, he wasn't sure what she would think even if it was written well. In truth, the three day limit had not been request, a nonnegotiable demand for both himself and Duck. She would have been quite out of luck getting him to show her any sooner, certainly.

In fact, she was not completely content with the arrangement, and she told him so with a pointed look before she padded outside, but she did leave. It made her squirm, and she knew she would be wiggling with tension as she waited. Still, if he was going to compromise, then she had to give something to get something. And she trusted that it would be worth this waiting.

* * *

The sun was setting by the time Fakir had managed to finish anything significant, but he was not particularly keen on his progress, however much of it he had managed. He growled at the paper, but the expression of pure feeling didn't put any more emotion into the words themselves. Thrusting away from the desk, he peered at his papers from a distance. He glossed over them with a look of mild distaste; they could have been a high fence to him. Nothing that couldn't be scaled, but it would probably hurt going over, and before that could even been considered, it wouldn't be simple to climb. Also, it would help if he could make some handholds for himself. There was nothing for him to climb on, as things were. His story was built of numerous words that were too loosely connected for him to scale.

He supposed it came down to Princess Tutu. He was writing about her, but really, there was little he knew about her. Though he could guess that against her own fate, she had been the original story's hope. The book marked her as the one who loved the prince, and that love was meant to have saved Mytho. It hadn't, in Fakir's opinion, what had was stronger. Not just words of love, penned by someone who only understood love of misfortune, but actual love. True love, he reminded himself, something less easily written in black on white than people liked to pretend. Still, Princess Tutu had been willing to give herself up for the sake of that love, which perhaps said more about her than anything else. True or not, that love had been hers.

The pen tapped against the newest sheet of paper, dry and without ink, as he slowly began to shape what he would use the ink for this time, less wastefully. This character would receive her happy ending, he would be sure of it. The story he would write would be of her return, a story that would take shape around its character to begin, and one that he hoped would mold more gracefully to match her as he continued. She would dance back into the world she had been ripped from, become a part of it again, instead of just a puppet to be pulled on matted webs of string.

He nodded to himself, setting a coldly determined frown, and wrote. The words spilled from his pen in every sense of the word, coming onto the page swift and disorganized. He didn't stop, however, he didn't think he could. His grasp on what he was doing wasn't very tight, but his grasp on the pen was, and he didn't want to let go. He would be letting her go, too, the beautiful figure that he would restore to her proper place. Like Duck, she had never been able to be her real self.

Now, he just had to find out who her real self was.

For the first time since he had begun writing, the focus drew itself in curves along the muscles of his back and arms, and though he was only bent over in a chair, his eyes darted the slight distance from one edge of the paper to the other as if he was following movement. As if he was tracking his newest dance partner's feet, learning her steps to intertwine with his own.


	4. Chapter 4

Hmm... Don't know if I'm fully satisfied with this one. However, it's pretty safe to say that everything is in place now. Almost. And Drosselmeyer certainly isn't out of the picture.

It might not be perfect, but it does everything I wanted it to do. It should be effective at getting the ideas across as I'd like them to be received.

Anyway, yes, as usual, I will request people's thoughts! Read and review, please~

Princess Tutu and all related characters do not belong to me. No copyright ownership here.

* * *

Duck was not merely looking forward to tomorrow, she was all but leaning forward and sticking her beak in it. Yesterday had been bothersome, and today was stretching itself so much that she wouldn't have been surprised if the fabric of time started unraveling because of it.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow... The day after that! She shoved her feet out in front of her, the webs catching in the water to bring her circling to a halt. The impact registered in the plume atop her head, which folded into zig-zags like it had been rammed into something. And like the plume was really made of something more than just a feather, but she didn't have a moment to spare for that bit of oddness, despite all the time she felt against her. She could only fidget with her wings and preen.

Because she had promised Fakir that she wouldn't bother him.

"Quaaack..." She muttered her abrupt indecisiveness aloud. The skin around her beak pulled together sourly, though the bill itself refused to wrinkle with displeasure. She had _promised_ not to bother him. She hadn't promised that she wouldn't go near the house, or anything of the sort. She assumed it was fair for her to check on him, she just couldn't bother him while she was doing it.

She pushed a flash of guilt down, the same one that she had felt on the other occasions she had gone to peek. Each time, she returned to the reeds before long. It wasn't that she didn't trust him, but she had to do something aside from sitting in the pond all day. He had promised a long time ago to stay with her, so she couldn't leave him, could she? It was that simple.

She shook her head at herself, but her gaze was fixed on the window. If he didn't want her help, then he didn't have to take it. She wasn't trying to fool herself anymore, either. There wasn't much she could offer in the way of help, and she knew that now. Still, she kept her head high. "Not much" had to be vastly different from "nothing." At this point, she certainly wasn't keen to leave things alone. It might have been that she could only watch him silently, but at least she could shove her beak in his face about it, if there did seem to be a problem. That was alright for her, because no, she _would not _be bothering him.

Unless she decided it was necessary. If keeping that stupid promise would make things worse by restricting what relatively little power she did have, she would pay it no mind.

Her eyes closed in a grin. The supposedly-feathery plume was perfectly straight once more; it was reaching forward as if to guide her, but not even a duck could become lost on this journey. Particularly not now that all the duck's dithering was out of the way. The rate she moved in grass was almost fast enough to cross the line between a quick waddle and actual running. She went smoothly, appearing to draw balance from focusing on everything except where she was going. She jumped and rose above the windowsill for a moment, just to be sure that things looked alright in there.

Duck was not certain that she had ever seen Fakir writing so intensely before. The process had been more consistent when he first wrote, but never had he thrown himself into the work. His pen had hurried over the paper to be done with it. Duck had watched doubtfully, because ballet students who hurried over the floor like that were not going to remain enrolled for more than a month.

A belated impulse flared in her to remind him of that, and she quacked loudly, not to mention rather thoughtlessly. It was just sound, however, not anything that a human would find coherent. She had a squirming feeling that this might be something he needed to know. Yet there was nothing she could use to give him the message, recent attempts had proven as much, and so she retreated to the pond with a heart heavy enough to sink in it.

* * *

The scenery from the windows was an illustration; clouds existed to powder the sky's face to a lighter blue, the hills were growing shards of emerald, and the sun was gleaming like white gold reflecting its own light. Glass poured the light inside, where it blended with the silence of the palace's massive hall and pooled on the marble floor. Rue spun in and rippled across it, and to anyone watching she might truly have been freed from gravity by calm waters.

Later, harsh torches would toss jumbled shadows around this crowded room, but the ball wasn't until that night. For now, she could dance with just her own shadow matching her movements, much as only one partner had ever been able to do. Her feet curled across the floor as easily as they leaped from it, to carry her in a shooting star's arc. The landing was noticeably neater than a piece of rock burning into the ground, however; her renewed orbit around the hall quickly restored her status as some celestial body. She twirled endlessly, falling and rising en pointe, arms swept above her head, fingertips touching with the same delicacy as her lightly closed eyelids. And yet there was not a delicate thing about her. Each motion, even simply angling her face to flow with the rest of her, was carved into the air as though to make some tangible mark on it.

The creak of the door didn't stop her, nor did the frantic swish of a dress against the floor. The steps were hushed by soft slippers and practice at being discreet, but Rue wished that she wouldn't bother with that when the maid's very purpose was to disturb her.

"I'm sorry, but if you please, Princess, it is time to prepare for this evening." The curtsey was audible in that demure voice. Rue did not turn to receive the gesture, keeping her hands and feet frozen in their perfect posture with her back to the woman. She sighed, then tried to catch the noise back into her throat. Her eyes opened narrowly; the contempt in them was for herself, but she couldn't keep the impatience out of her voice for the maid to hear.

"I know." How carelessly she spoke. Dismissive of what the maid had to say; and the maid herself, or so the older lady surely thought. Rue saw the stiffness in the shoulders of the woman when she looked around at last, though the maid's face was held at the ground. It was true that Rue didn't want to be told to prepare again, but she could think of no means to communicate this to the lady's maids who had been given charge of her. As a princess, she had certain expectations attached to her, and one of them was spending several hours on appearances before any event that took place in the royal palace. That almost seemed to be the only expectation anyone had of her, in fact, except for that she should try to remain generally clean and pretty. Clean, pretty, and not covered with sweat from straining herself, like she was now. She snapped a lock of hair off her glistening forehead, quite unapologetic.

Perhaps there was a good reason for her to idle with the other noblewomen, but she hadn't found it. The only important role she had was to practice, for those sparse occasions when Siegfried would come to her. But so often they were separated by his more intricate princely responsibilities. She had offered to help him, of course. He had simply caressed her hand, and told her that her happiness was all she should concern herself with now. He had been desperately loving, acting solely for her, and she was as helpless before him as the maids. She could not go to him and say what would amount to, "My Prince, there is nothing for me here." It didn't matter how prettily she told him. She believed he received enough pretty speeches in court. Not that she had any first-hand experience.

"Please, my lady..."

Rue frowned tightly and nodded. She brushed busily past the maid, rejecting a close escort to her rooms. The empty rustling of fancy fabric followed her at a mindful distance. In the front room of the princess's quarters, two other maids waited for her. They curtsied together, murmuring nothing more than, "My lady."

Rue smiled, but her face was porcelain, and did not move kindly with happiness. She entered around them, startling all three of the ladies when she pivoted en pointe. She held her form above them, and loosed her hair swiftly from the ribbon to let it fall onto her shoulders like raven's feathers. That smiled curved sharply. "Of course, we shouldn't delay any further. I suppose we must be ready for the ball at once, mustn't we?" She finally addressed them. Her voice was stretched thin and dainty, as if she were the lady-in-waiting mocking a mistress who put on too many airs.

To all of them, she was graceful in the wrong ways, if she was graceful at all. Too hard-edged to be a princess. But she was doing what she could, and she would allow herself to be readied for the ball. She would not even try to take care of herself; not tonight. Let them fuss at her attire and run endless combs through her hair, and let them think what they wanted of the distaste she couldn't hide. She would uphold her responsibilities and their expectations, even if she failed at going about it elegantly. No one would openly say anything against the princess without good reason, so the prince wouldn't have to learn of her shortcomings.

* * *

"Now, I believe we can reach an agreement. You may tell the villagers that it is their right to keep an additional portion of the crops as they have requested, but following this year, they must give more according to what they can support." Prince Siegfried's authority could not be mistaken. His tone may have been quiet, but the hall was quieter still out of respect for him. Even if every person gathered there had taken to chattering, the stern steel of his words would have been heard, and the gold of his eyes was nothing but gilding backed by the same metal. "According to what they can support, keep that in mind. Not according to what supports your lifestyle. Is that clear?"

The lord bowed low. Amazingly, he didn't resent that the prince had mostly likely halted certain ambitions of his, accepting the proclamation with dignity. Though there had been no disasters while the prince was gone, the kingdom had been about as stable as a story without a main character to follow. No one aside from the prince and princess suspected that this might have been more than a simile, but the figurative idea was enough for the refreshed affairs of the kingdom to receive wide support.

Siegfried smiled gratefully. He never made any secret of his genuine appreciation for his subjects' help. "Thank you." He flashed the same smile, deep enough to close his eyes above it, at the other members of the court. "All of you. And now, you may go. I trust that I will see all of you tonight." His face brightened to grin more fully, showing the anticipation that everyone had for the night's festivities. They bowed together, and he returned the unified gesture to dismiss them.

It wasn't long before the nobles had trickled away. Siegfried almost yawned, but he forced his breath against it. Despite being the only person to remain in the throne room, he was uncomfortable with such a discourteous gesture, and he favored the cause of it even less. The court had disbanded early today, very early indeed, judging by how the sun was shining at all outside. Those who worked with him to organize the kingdom had been given leave to do as they saw fit before the evening's ball, a celebration of their prince's return. It was an overdue event in the minds of many, as the prince had wondrously returned months ago. Siegfried himself had stilled the feet that were already beginning to dance then, though it had only thrilled the people more to see that he had returned to him with his wisdom.

"No, there will be no celebration now. My return is not what we should celebrate. We will celebrate when this kingdom thrives once more," he had said, in his gentle voice, and they had cheered him just the same. He was not surprised by the amount of work it had taken to come as far as they had, and it struck him as something to be expected that there was no way to tell how much was left. Just expecting the strike, however, did not make it any less of a blow. The seal of the Swan Prince was matched for power to any sword in the kingdom, and it was becoming tiring to wield, as well.

He gripped the arm of the throne he stood beside, leaning on it. The soft fabric lining the wood clung to the warmth of his presence. It had been cold for years, and so had the hearts of his people, without their most noble prince. They had said so, in expressing their gratitude for his return, and they had been even more flowery about it. The sentiment stirred guilt in him, through how it spoke of the kingdom's state while he was gone. He had come back, yes; but he had come back unable to give them their due for the years of disorder that had reigned in his place. Nor was he able to offer his people any explanation for where he had gone after disappearing with the Raven. What could he have told them? Yet he faced no sharp accusations and was not pressed enough to require a falsified excuse. He and Rue had simply been welcomed with all the spent energy of the perfect kingdom.

Though he had the burden of his absence to overcome, he was at least trying to keep Rue without it. She had suffered more than enough already so he could be here with her, and the concerns of this world were not supposed to be hers. The thought of seeing her that night made him smile again, and though his smile to his subjects had been just as real, this one bloomed from a deeper root in his heart.

* * *

Ink-smudged fingers blossomed from a fist, spreading out over the bottom edge of the paper. Fakir pressed on it; perhaps to transfix it to the table, or maybe he wanted to hold down something that wasn't there yet. Could the words he didn't have be captured if he kept the paper in his power? Would they rise up under his hand, because he had pinned their hiding place and they wanted to be free?

Such a far-fetched idea did not truly occur Fakir, but words striking out for their freedom from him seemed possible along a different train of thought. Everything in his head was pushed down onto the paper before he had time to consider it, though he didn't need careful planning. Yes, he knew what he was writing, and stopping the tuneless rhythm that he had worked into was an interruption. He didn't want anyone to interrupt him now, not himself or Duck.

He was aware of Duck, though she probably didn't want him to be. He heard her quietly flustered quacks as she tried to arrange herself outside the window, and occasionally over the past two days he had seen a yellow feather betray the bird it was attached to. She never bothered him, however, and he pressed himself to respect the restraint she had to be showing to flutter outside like she was listening in. She had to know she wouldn't learn anything. She was waiting. She just had her own course to wait by, an unusually active one. So he let her be, in part because her presence was more encouraging than he would admit. It added worth to his work to remember that she was expecting something. He would deliver more than she could imagine, and they would celebrate. He heard her voice in his mind. Even as she quacked outside, he heard her speaking to him in words that carried meanings he could never imprison on paper.

But there were some ideas he could capture. He had learned who Princess Tutu was over the past few days, though it felt more like he was pulling the knowledge up from something fresher than a memory. Each line came from a character he was coming to enjoy the company of, even as he returned her to the kingdom where she belonged.

_The princess was no mere spark of light for the world. She had the essence of all light in her. Happiness, love, and hope; the hope that came from those sources. The hope that drew upon itself for strength, the hope that shined where there was nothing that could have fueled it. Each step she danced might not have spread her hope, but each step tried with effort that would have brought most people to exhaustion. It was true that her dancing was magnificent, but its power was not always immediately felt in people's hearts. No, sometimes it took time, but people would always come to see her, and what she could do... _

What she could do... When he was done, they could dance. He would dance with Duck. The thoughts that stayed in his head were short; most of the space in his mind was otherwise occupied, but that one swelled with the same conviction of all the words that dripped out. They formed as if he was holding the pen over the paper, and one splotch after another was etched by swordpoint into the word he wanted.

Fakir may not have been himself. Those words ran through his veins headily, thicker than blood and more than the ink that made them up. They weren't staying in his veins; the pen cut them out, but he wasn't giving up any life with them. There were always others. They stained his muscle and bone and mind, and they lapped at everything around him.

* * *

When Duck heard Fakir's voice, it was in an uncommon moment of stillness. She sat in the pond; wilting over its surface, and trying to shake away the gloom that came with what seemed to be her single ability. His voice echoed, surprisingly mellow for how she had seen him writing. Soon after the first words resounded across the water and into her mind, she felt them brushing against her. She gasped, and closed her eyes. "Qua..."

They soaked her feathers first, working inward, and once she was saturated they began to unwind. Each letter lost its shape, until lines of text became rows of black cord around her. She twisted with them, and she was still growing as light flared over the purple shadows, embracing her with tenderness she had only felt in the arms of one person before that moment.

_And so, Princess Tutu returned to the kingdom she had been ripped from._


	5. Chapter 5

Haha, I am the slowest writer ever, I swear. Sorry about that! Anyway, here is where things kick off~ Pacing remains my enemy, but I think I'm starting to get it. Hopefully...?

Read and review, let me know what you think. c:

Princess Tutu and all related characters are not mine.

* * *

Siegfried flowed through the babbling stream of nobles as they came into the hall; their spray of jewels and gold embroidery glittering in the torches' fire. People milled together with the extraordinary translucence of the swirling tides, and already a musical current pulled them into a laughing whirlpool. He found himself dodging the dance, more or less literally. Some stepped around him and swept off, but others prickled him with an innocently curious glance, and then blinked away confusion. He was not being the most hospitable, it was true. He smiled and discussed how lovely the evening was in tea-cakes of conversation, but that was the extent of his involvement in what was meant to be his own celebration. And several young ladies couldn't help noticing that all he ever returned an inviting curtsey with was a soft bow.

It wasn't until Rue entered that he devoted his full attention to anything. She stood out in the watered-down brightness, painted in bold strokes that ran across everything she touched. He could see the rosy flashes of her darting eyes, and the arc of his smile became faintly playful when they met his steady gaze. She replied with an exaggerated curtsey from the other side of the room, to which he bowed lower than custom dictated. They skirted the edges of the room to meet each other quickly. Clasped hands bridged the last distance between themselves, though they stopped with their arms still outstretched. There was some hesitation on the parts of both, even now, and they both worried about what was holding the other back. Siegfried spoke first.

"Rue, I've missed you..." Yet they had been living in the same building. His eyes widened the tiniest bit, but she didn't let him regret it.

"I know," She said, shaking her head to dispel his thought. It hadn't been entirely true until that moment, but she trusted what he told her. She continued, the usual sharpness of her voice pressed into quiet teasing."And how have you been, my Prince, aside from pining for your princess?" Her stare, piercing as always, was laden with something rarer. That warm happiness she never showed anyone but him.

He closed his eyes, so she couldn't see how far down his answer went. "A little tired. But that's worth it to be sure that my princess fares well even without her prince." Rue arched her eyebrows challengingly, but the possibility of any protest fell out of her throat. So she merely pulled him closer, perhaps more fiercely than she would have otherwise, and threw him away, keeping only one of his hands in hers. He responded in kind, swiftly catching his footing and pulling her back to his chest. They spun out, all the grace of a cursive letter mixing perfectly with a picture worth a thousand words.

Though the music was driving the whirlpool in a slow waltz, Rue and Siegfried matched the rhythm with small leaps and catches, twining and skipping around each other. They couldn't simply allow their awareness of each other to guide them, thanks to the numerous other people in the vicinity, but they both bent as though there had never been tension in their bodies.

"Well, Siegfried..." Rue finally began to whisper into his ear, taking up a more normal volume as she danced away. The quickened beating of her heart bolstered her. "If that's what the prince wishes for his princess, that's what will be." She sounded almost mischievous, to belie her resolution, but he glanced back at her seriously. Reaching forward, he wrapped his hands on her waist and tossed her without letting go. She tilted into the motion, and when she was near enough again, he said, "So, then, is it not already?"

She didn't answer, but rather twisted sharply away in his grip, curving her back until the ceiling filled her vision. He held her there, and a few pins were lost from her hair, as they had not been placed with consideration for anything other than delicate ballroom dances. They plinked against the marble in sudden silence.

Siegfried did not realize for a moment that the stillness was more than what Rue had left in his head, that the ballroom was truly soundless. She pressed against his arms, and he set her down; they might have been ice sculptures warmed with movement for the first time. The crowd around them scurried aside in unified shock, leaving the couple in a ring. It was as though a statue had truly stirred before the onlookers, but the plain wonder in most every eye was for neither the prince nor the princess. An aisle was cleared among the nobles, and the royal pair saw what had brought the whirling ball to a halt.

Another dancer, a slender beauty who sailed like silk lace in the breeze. She bobbed a sprightly curtsy and held it, peering up at him with the twilit sky under her lashes. It seemed that the prince had a partner, but that was no matter. She bubbled with anticipation, for her heart was already dancing with him. Graciously, she waited for Siegfried to formally address her, to take her hand and kiss it, making his smile's reflection the sun of her eyes. Her voice shown in pastel shades over the shimmering whispers of amazement in the air.

"My prince."

Siegfried gasped, "Princess... Tutu?" He had other questions, ones that were not useless with too much disbelief, but Rue intervened.

"Duck, what are you doing here?" It was a command for information, though not from a princess. Just from an imperious upperclasswoman, and she actually curtsied as she gave it. She carried an amusement that was almost youthful, smirking faintly, and seeming to believe that their unexpected guest would return the strange sentiment. She merely presented Rue with a tiny nod and a smile lacking in substance, not even lingering on the other girl long enough to see how disappointment drained the smirk into a tiny frown. Siegfried caught it in a stolen glimpse, and squeezed her hand, though he was not entirely certain of what he was reassuring her against. She was too distracted to notice, anyway, suspicion lined in her gaze by narrowed eyes as Princess Tutu laughed. The sound was a handful of scattered glitter, affectionately delighted by the prince's surprise.

"Yes. Now, my prince, please..." Her foot traced a half-circle on the floor, and she reached for him, bending as if to cover a much greater distance. "Let us dance." The crowd's hushed muttering brought the invitation to the musicians, and the waltz started up again, but no one moved. The magic of the world was spellbound by Tutu, and it made Siegfried's startled look jarring to her, though not for exactly that reason. His pause drew innocent worry from Tutu, but it was for him; was her prince bothered by something?

"Princess Tutu, I am... sorry, but..." He had been focusing, if peripherally, on Rue, but realization of her trouble stole quickly over concern. The Tutu he had known saw them off, he still kept the bittersweet memory in his heart, now that he had a heart to store it in again. So, she should have known the standing of things. He straightened, his frame flooding with carefully wrought composure. He took her hand, but only to lift it and kiss it lightly, a cordial gesture. Hesitation was traded for precise gentleness as he concluded, "I must decline."

Now it was Tutu who gasped daintily, a fluffed noise that would have been more suited to a spill on her dress. For an instant, she regarded Siegfried as though he was the one who had come to the ball without warning, someone unknown. Certainly not her prince. That sympathetic look he was giving her confirmed the last statement as the truth, he was not _her_ prince. "I... I see. I understand, my prince." She wished she could have swallowed the habitual words, but she only curtsied again. She was unwavering even as tears budded along her eyes. She stepped away, but he came forward with a powerful stride and grabbed her arm.

"No, Tutu... Don't you remember? You saved me, and I will always be grateful," He said, and each word was laden with something like desperation, pressing her to recall. But the words cut through her, because there were no memories to catch them, and a rekindled hope leaked out from the wounds. She shook her head, anything she might have said stuck in her throat, which seemed to have swollen shut. She pulled away and pranced from the ballroom, and hope, if only that for a pleasant evening, followed.

He held up a hand, but the cry for her to wait was lost when Rue laid a one of hers on his shoulder. He looked back, and for a moment, she was drowning in molten gold. She ran that hand down his arm, and twined their fingers together.

"Rue, why...?" He murmured, softly pained against the strong line of his back.

"I'm don't know, but don't trouble yourself." She forced a casual tone, though it pained her to have witnessed that from Duck, or at least the person she still thought of as Duck. She expended a great deal of self-control to not follow right away, and what she saved of her control was locked away with the knowledge of how she could do anything about this. She couldn't follow Tutu, but she was in no mood to stay among the nobles, their superficial brightness dulled by that of the prima donna. "I'm tired, as well. I'll take my leave now."

She walked out, her poise and pride seeming unharmed, and Siegfried was left to be a droplet in the glassy sea.

* * *

Fakir hurled away his pen, unable to breathe. Maybe the same black bonds that had taken Duck were around his lungs now. He couldn't have complained about it, except that he needed to breathe so he could run out to the pond. He was going to look for her, he couldn't stop himself from checking, even when he had felt his handwriting loop manacles around her and drag her away. It had bound him, too, restraining him and taking free rein. He could feel reality scorning him, having let him play in it with his words, only to take the broken toy back from the naughty child. He was the one who could fix it, but there was no way to tell if he could get the chance, or make it for himself.

The pond was undisturbed, not even sunlight glancing from its surface thanks to a thin covering of clouds overhead. He scanned the water, but no bright yellow bird broke the silence instilled by nature, no absurdly loud quacks of greeting tackled him. She wasn't here, as and the last bit of hope that she might somehow swim from the reeds faded, he found himself steadying. He had been denying it before, he had wanted to shout at himself, he had been so desperate to see her and prove himself wrong. He was right, however, she was gone, and understanding that meant he had to bring her back. There was no uncertainty about it.

He closed his eyes, highlighting his thoughts in the darkness of his mind, and scowled. He wasn't going to write again, tampering with matters from a distance made them worse. His sword couldn't have been trusted, his pen couldn't be trusted, but there was still something to be said for the rest of him. He wasn't perfectly sure of how it worked, but he knew that there a way into the story. The one used by Mytho and Rue. He could enter through it, and bring Duck back. He would be with her, just as he had said, so there would be no unfortunate mishaps this time.

He heard the rustling of squashed grass underfoot, and he nearly lost his internal balance, but he didn't open his eyes to see who it was. In fact, he screwed them more tightly shut. There were other animals around, of course, but they didn't move in such a way, and neither did Duck. Simple logic said it couldn't be her as well as the entire situation did. Those were a human's steps, and he could only think of one human who might come out here. Fakir finally restored his vision for the sake of glaring at Autor. "Are you that much more curious than usual?"

Autor shook his head, leafing noisily through a small collection of papers. "No. I wasn't, anyway. I just thought I would check up on you, to see if you'd managed to make anything out of my advice. And it seems that you have."

"But now you are, for some reason?" The question was dripping with sarcasm, as Fakir already had the answer. He was staring at it, clutched in Autor's oddly defensive grasp. Though, he might have been justified in thinking that Fakir would snatch his own work and tear it. Autor could tell that the writing was his beloved's kidnapper to its creator, a Frankenstein's monster at best.

"Once again, you're wrong. I've had my curiosity satisfied, and with more than I saw coming." Autor nodded, but he kept that uniquely casual smirk on Fakir throughout the gesture. "Where is Duck, I wonder? You know, this ideal of hope you described doesn't sound much like Princess Tutu to me..."

Fakir snorted impatiently, walking around the other boy to go back inside, and ignoring the question. Much like his own query, he didn't doubt that Autor knew the answer. He had any number of better things to do than attend to Autor's eccentricities, and he would probably have been able to come up with some even if the current situation wasn't urgent. "That's what she turned out to be. I'd think you'd be the one to know about character development, but I'm not going to sit around for a lecture now."

"Since I answered so many of your questions last time, you really should return the favor for just one of mine." Autor cut him off, and persisted smoothly, "Where is Duck?"

"You've already guessed, or you wouldn't have bothered." Fakir did stop, and though he didn't turn around, Autor saw his fists clench. His answer slipped sharply from a tight jaw. "And I'm the one who should be asking you things like how you got in my house, or what you were doing looking at that without permission! Don't talk like I owe you something."

"So, you're going to write her back. I'm glad you're at least starting to appreciate your talent." Anticipation rushed Autor's voice from his mouth, but he somehow avoided losing his articulation. To say he had found Fakir's treatment of his story spinning abilities distasteful would have been true, but he was thrilled that he would have the opportunity to observe at last. He would relish this, and that the genius of the spinner was not as great as Drosselmeyer's mattered little. It would be enough to sit and watch, without an axe in his face or a town poisoned into crows, which did not exactly make the best conditions for the examination of miraculous processes. "And I would say that you still owe me something, so maybe I'll just call in the debt now."

"You're going to have to wait. I'm not writing Duck back here, I'm going to her," Fakir said, determination hardening his words, and to him, they became more solid than anything on the page.

"No!" Autor all but yelped, his skin losing its color as though Fakir had suggested murder. He wrenched on Fakir from behind, grabbing his wrist and forcing the other boy's hand in front of his own face. "Why not use it?"

"Of course, that's what I'll do." Fakir snapped from Autor's grip on pure reflex, though it had been surprisingly strong. That strange passion for writing lent the musician most of his courage. "I'm not just waiting. I _am_ going to bring her back with my own hands."

"You only need to use one," Autor calmed himself to make the offer, almost a request. "Anyway, if you really don't want to meddle in the story, just continue it. If you just shove your hands at a paper, you can't change what's written on it. The most you'll do is rip it!" He lifted the sheets he held pointedly, waving them. He built a confident momentum as he carried on, ignoring Fakir's attempt to put forward his own view. "Your words will bring her out of the story without damaging it. If you want to do that, there's no need to involve yourself in the heroics of a character again."

Fakir shook his head brusquely to cover the pause that Autor gave him. It was true that he wasn't a knight, so he probably had no business charging off into a storybook world on some kind of quest to save his... He blinked, but now wasn't the time for fresh thought on who Duck was for him. Whatever the end of that sentence was, none of it would matter if he didn't do something now, and writing would not satisfy him. It had caused enough problems for other people, even excluding the present, and he had always been one for action. He wanted to be in a position to act.

Fakir narrowed his eyes abruptly, and Autor matched the expression in a cautious response. "Well?"

"You said that if I wanted to do this, I shouldn't disturb the story," Fakir said, still guarded against the idea. "You know so much about this, so what do you think of me writing myself in?"

Autor's mouth formed a surprised circle before slipping into a familiar, thin smile that revealed his mind to be working, though not the exact nature of his calculations. He continued, seeming much as a rash gambler disregarding the risk. "That... It might actually work. Maybe. Of course, you'll probably need my help, and that will come with a condition."

"And what would that be?" Fakir inquired, rather caustically. He was not well deposed to this, but Autor had found an advantage by merely gaining that reply, and he knew as much. For once, he was sparing with his speech, obviously hoping to increase the dramatic tension of their conversation. Fakir clenched his fists again, to stop himself from taking the other boy by the collar and shaking him.

"You write me into the story, along with yourself," Autor nudged his glasses higher on his nose. His eagerness to enter one of the worlds he had devoted himself to was revealed through the realigned frames.

"Fine." Fakir might have taken more time to think, but too much had been wasted as it was. There had not really been enough to spare for that debate, so he choked back some pride for the sake of this compromise. Not only pride, but some of his own concern for Duck, because if this didn't work, then it would prove another lost cause. He would have changed his mind, if he had not been grudgingly aware that Autor understood what he was talking about. It was against his better judgment, but he returned to his study with Autor in tow.

* * *

_Though Fakir had once again worked late into the night, and made Autor stay with him for it, the new author was forced to trudge off to his own bed in the end. It was his dream that took him somewhere else, but it was not where he wanted to be. Endless blackness, nameless liquid, and a careless voice surrounded him. _

"_Well, well, despite everything, you haven't been a disappointment yet," Drosselmeyer remarked approvingly, clapping his hands in a tidy sign of satisfaction. "Everything being your own expectations, I suppose, but normally, you need more heart in your story to do as well as you have. And you have such ambition. Perhaps, if it had occurred to me to be more than a spectator, I could have helped things along properly." His expression was bizarrely close to a pout for a moment. "Not that I didn't try. Don't misunderstand." _

"_Are you finished?" __Fakir hissed._ "I don't really care what some washed-up old man has to say." He was quiet enough to prevent the echoes from cutting the edge off his voice. 

"_Of course I'm finished! You are the one who started something here, you know." Drosselmeyer sounded positively delighted. Fakir subjected him to cold scrutiny for a brief instant, and spun around without further words. He wasn't going to stand there listening to that, because there was a great expanse available to him where Drosselmeyer was as absent as an exit from this place_

"_Whatever. I'm finished with you, so don't try to interfere," he warned over his shoulder, and then he set off, feeling decidedly off-balance due to the surface rippling under his feet. He was by no means able to tell how long he had been walking, when that familiar sound halted him like a jammed gear. He would have liked to pause the tumbling mechanisms that spiraled before him in the same way. Last time, there had been just two, as harmless as anything Drosselmeyer held onto could be. In front of him now, there was a garden of metal flowers, petals solidly working together in driving on some story. His story, he had to acknowledge, and his mouth tightened. _

"_Isn't it so beautiful? Like a flower garden." _

_Fakir was more frightened by the author voicing his own thought aloud than by the hand that was brought to rest on his shoulder. _


	6. Chapter 6

Oh, God, I am sorry that took so long. Writer's block and spring break in DC with no computer access were both pains. (Not that I didn't work on it in DC... but no one can read what's in my notebook, so yeah.) I'm actually reasonably satisfied with how this turned out, however. I had an almost complete copy of this chapter, then scrapped it and redid the whole thing. I do believe this one is an improvement from that, and I'm glad I didn't make the mistake of finishing that one.

And yes, things are going to get very troublesome, from here on out, story-wise. Drosselmeyer will be sure of that.

Princess Tutu and all related characters are not mine. They are Itoh Ikuko's.

* * *

The hallway echoed with muted whispering, indistinct sounds wafting far from the ballroom as Siegfried sought to leave it behind. He braced his hands against his back, walking with the speed of purpose, though his frown spoke of more halting contemplation. He almost missed the corridor that led to the palace's private rooms, and knocked against the wall in a sudden turn. He stumbled, his own rare clumsiness shocking a stunted laugh out of him, and continued on his way without further pause. The princess's rooms were the furthest back, set separately to ensure privacy and quiet away from any troublesome bustle. He entered without knocking, but he waited by the door when he did not immediately see her there. "Rue?"

The front room was well-lit, with the torches still burning when the hour called for nothing more than candlelight, but he could see darkness under the door to where she slept. He did not want to wake her. His fathomless eyes quested as he paused for a moment before leaving, taking in the surroundings. Rue's surroundings, really; as sparse as satin-padded chairs and cushions could be, all in proud purples and golds. He had been there before, of course, but it only occurred to him then that he could not taste anything of Rue's own flavoring in the ceremonial royal colors. He skimmed the lifeless fabric with a finger and sighed. It felt as though he was staring from afar at an impulse to burst into Rue's room and return to her, but before he could act on it or deny it, she came in silently. Her ballgown was still on, playing with the light in its folds as she moved.

"Yes, my Prince?" She approached him thoughtlessly, not seeming to be entirely sure of what she was doing. She never met his eyes, instead keeping her own under a half-lidded veil, and declined to speak further. She did not have anything else to say to him, or rather, she doubted that she could say anything good enough for him. She told herself it was her confusion at the situation, which matched his, that kept her from offering something more, and not fresh fear. A selfish fear, when Duck deserved her concern: that if Princess Tutu was back, Siegfried might recall the perfection of the love that had been destined for him.

His mouth opened without any of the words he might have intended, and his hand curled out, obviously wanting to hold hers. She could tell that he held back out of a desire to avoid intruding against her wishes. It was difficult not to be relieved by the nervousness he had for her sake. She took his hand, and pressed gently.

He glanced down and lingered on their connection, but for some reason, that was harder than trying to look her in the eye. "Well... I thought it would be best to ask for your thoughts on the matter, before I offer anything."

"To Princess Tutu, you mean? What are you thinking?"

Siegfried did not answer, but said, "Walk with me, please." He led her out, once again going quickly along the corridor while Rue kept pace smoothly beside him. The prince slipped down the servant's side path, and did not speak again until they had traversed much of it. "Tutu does not... have anything, it seems. Her own home is uncertain to her. I thought it might be best if we were to give her one, if only for a time."

He had to wait for a reply, and he did so willingly. Rue had been upset by Tutu's appearance, in how many ways he could not say, but he thought she might know more of Tutu than he did. She had called Tutu the name of a girl he remembered, but emptily, a face that had evoked nothing in him for most of the time had known her. Duck, the girl, and the bird, who had brought him together. He rested a hand on his chest, feeling the moments counted out under it as they walked. His patience did not have to last him as long as he thought it would have, however.

"I still don't really believe it is Tutu. Something isn't right." She stopped, and tugged lightly on him; he allowed himself to slowly be turned to face her. She whispered forcefully, "You know that."

"Yes," he admitted, carefully laying out the word. That affirmation had been at the back of his mind since Tutu first appeared, and yet he could not have told himself as much without Rue's refusal to waver on the matter. He bowed his head, closing his eyes serenely. "If for no other reason, then, she must stay so that we can right this."

She agreed, with such confidence that it seemed to close the matter. "That's right. It isn't so difficult to figure out, now is it?" She plucked the hem of her skirt off the ground and, with that out of the way, sped off as well as one could at a walking pace. It did not make things any less melancholy, but Siegfried couldn't stop himself from smiling after her.

* * *

The hallway looped through all the areas the servants might need to access for work, eventually ending at the courtyard. Snatched rays of moonlight traced the flowers, seeming to reflect from the young woman standing in their midst. She rested, arms at her sides and one foot pointed while the other held all her weight, as though she prepared to spring forward. She stayed motionless, however, as Siegfried and Rue picked their way over petals in unison. He inclined his head respectfully, but the enfolding silence was Tutu's. She would break it in her own course.

"I am sorry... for my earlier manner, Your Highness," she murmured. Her eyes were kept from any light by her lowered gaze, making them the same shade as the night sky. The clumsy blush over her cheeks gave her the look of a younger, more awkward girl. Rue couldn't help but notice it, as she tried to determine whether she was looking at Tutu, or if she had caught a glimpse of Duck at last. That hope lent her an accepting smile with surprising ease.

"It's alright," she said graciously, only to recoil slightly when Tutu turned to her directly. She was too quiet, the softness in her face somehow unbreakable for all its delicacy, but Rue found it a poorly fitting mask.

"I thank you, Princess." Once again, Tutu's acknowledgment was politely sincere, but she remained nervous for the prince's answer. She was trembling, in fact, though she was sure the prince would forgive her. He was so kind, endlessly kind.

"You needn't worry," He replied. He regarded her kindly, and spoke as if to reassure her. "I would only like for you to be comfortable. You are a guest, and may stay as long as you wish."

Her mouth shaped a startled circle, facing a gift that she did not know quite what to do with. She pressed her fingertips over the graceless expression, but it was only a reflexive courtesy over uneasiness. _He said stay with "us", not stay with "me," _she thought, and then blinked, as though that would banish such ideas. She had assumed she would return to her own castle, but both the prince and the princess seemed to desire her presence. She swallowed, and tried rather poorly to disguise an inclination to fidget by smoothing her skirt. Her smile was strong, but almost more unexpectedly raw strength than happiness. "That is most generous, Prince... Thank you, I will be glad to remain."

"Excellent." Rue seemed to be talking more to Siegfried than to Tutu, though she watched the other princess steadily, and with something that might have been described as longing. Whatever she was waiting for did not appear, however, and she turned away, releasing a breath too small to be called a sigh. "I hope that we can become well-acquainted."

Siegfried did not reach out to comfort her, though she must have been pulled thin to speak with such a taut tone. He promised himself that he would walk back with her, though, and stay with her longer if she seemed to need it. Whether she acknowledged the need or not, he told himself privately. Outwardly, he addressed the other ballerina.

"It is an honor... Princess Tutu."

* * *

_Each twitch of Drosselmeyer's gaze rested on a different gear, but despite the number of parts, there was only a shell of a complete contraption. The days had gone by, yet pieces popped into being far from others and spun alone, and just a few of those that ran together had a steady rhythm, while the rest were jammed with tangible reluctance. The author wondered quietly at the sorry state of it all, "Isn't this just terrible? I know the boy is a bit green behind the ears, but really." He shook his head. Presumably, it was meant to have been a despairing gesture, but his grin threw off the intent. _

_He trotted forward, into the main interlocking sections, always managing to duck his head at the right moment to avoid losing it when something sharp stuck out. The motion of one gear ripped a feather that had been unfortunate enough to become tangled from his hat. He blinked owlishly, and shrugged, if anything being further amused by the loss, and bent backward at a wild angle to inspect the gears above him. _

"_Ah, but this is tiresome." He pivoted upright, brushing nothingness off himself, and twirling on the tips of his toes to sigh at the machinery. "Perhaps..." He blinked rapidly, as though unable to stand flashes of his own brilliance. _

"_I promised the boy that I wouldn't interfere, so I will not." He chuckled, "But he can do all the manipulating he wants, and to... whomever he choose, of course." He whipped around, prancing forward just fast enough to avoid having his cloak caught in the gears. A crank had obligingly appeared in front of him, though it did not have anything supporting it, much less connected to it. This world paid attention to gravity only for the sake of convenience, if at all. Drosselmeyer took advantage of the strange freedom, bringing the crank around with a neat flip. His entire body stretched, the tips of his toes marking out the circumference of a circle, part of which extended past the apparent ground he had been standing on. After landing noiselessly on that same ground, he gave it one or two extra turns, simply for good measure and certainty. The gears that could spin spun faster, and what existed of the story accelerated along with them. _

_Drosselmeyer settled back, confident pleasure rising in him. "Now, of all the stories I've led along, I'll see where this one leads me..."_

* * *

The tip of the blade extended in a sweeping arc, following the cycle of Fakir's breath. The hilt fit into his palm with the familiarity of constant practice, but he couldn't even say why he had picked it up that morning after months of disuse. Perhaps it was simply a desire to move overpowering him; his limbs were drowning in stagnant energy from three days spent at a desk. Other suspicious motives were only faint bitterness around the edge of his mouth. The routine kept his focus elsewhere, the ferocity of each stroke occupying his mind fully. He pulled the sword close to his body as naturally as he would air into his lungs, and exhaled a clean lunge. The thrust caught nothing on its end, but he reclaimed it to strike another blow against his invisible target. A sharp knock punctuated the hit, despite the lack of anything to receive it.

He paused, but pushed away the distraction with a fresh strike instead of lowering the blade. His heel supported a turn, the level sword reaching in a hemisphere around him again. He shortened a forward leap to avoid piercing the wall, and twisted his wrists to carry the tip of the blade up in an underhand stroke. The knock was forgotten as he pivoted again, every corner of him thoroughly devoted to motion and free of irritations or more serious troubles. Even an abrupt series of raps demanding his attention did not send any pressure running through him.

"Fakir! Where are you? You scheduled this, not me." Autor's shout swelled down the short hall from the front door. Fakir closed his eyes, sealing a portion of his recovered patience, and returned the sword to its scabbard. He rested the weapon against the wall with a clack of finality, and yelled back, "I'm coming!" The knocking stopped, as though the sword had been taken to the sound instead of set aside.

When he swung the front door open, a smug expression had pressed all but a hint of exasperation from Autor. "Oh, there you are. Why did you keep me waiting?" He seemed to expect an answer, even if he didn't wait for one, slipping awkwardly around Fakir into the house.

"I was... taking a break." Fakir stepped back in front, leading the other boy through the house. He obviously had no intention to dwell on the matter, but Autor's surprise did not stop him from questioning it.

"To do what?"

Fakir stopped as they crossed through the first room. His foreboding tone matched his posture, but he did not seem tense. He shrugged after a moment, apparently careless, but he still had quite the acidic cast. "Exercise. That's all." He glared back at Autor. "Is that good enough for you?"

The musician did not receive the cutting look, inadvertently dodging it as he inspected the room. The sword caught his eye, and he nodded to it. "Ah, so you're been practicing. But I thought the whole point of this was to avoid that."

"It is," Fakir replied, quietly, but without any trace of softness.

Autor peered shrewdly over the top of his glasses. "Why bother, then? Unless you think you'll need it. Are we going to dash into battle to save your distressed damsel?"

Fakir whirled, eyes opening uncommonly wide, and hissed, "No!" The words brought a cold, ghostly grip to his shoulder, and though it did remind him of a certain figure, he couldn't truly name what it belonged to. If something happened to Duck, with all the writing he'd been doing, he would have had no choice but to spell it out himself in his story. He was unflinchingly sure that something would happen, however, if he did not pull her back soon. He would write the words to counter it, but he did not want to let this wind in on itself anymore, and so he would strike a decisive blow against the bud before the thorns grew. In fact, he told himself it was too simple to bother over. There was no other option available to him, and he would not falter. He released all his air in a swift breath, and snapped, "It's nothing like that."

"Is that so?" Autor's smile was coldly wry. "Have you ever thought about just what a good distressed damsel Tutu really would make?" Fakir shook his head impatiently, not being interested in remarking on the unsettling concept. He regarded Autor with a new hint of wariness, and finally seemed to have abandoned the conversation as undeserving of his energy. He spun away, but Autor continued blithely. "Alright. Well, maybe I can be the dashing hero this time. Do you think I'm an ordinary enough high school student for it?"

"This isn't some adventure!"

"Then what is it?"

Autor picked up a poker from beside the fireplace thoughtfully, swishing it back and forth. His agility was greater than one would have expected when he jumped at Fakir with it, though it was clear that he was not really trying to hit the other boy. The former knight's glowering suddenly flared into crackling anger. For all Autor's knowledge, did his icy impracticality keep him from understanding anything at all? This was ridiculous. In less time than it would have taken Autor to drop the poker himself, Fakir had snatched the blade, still in its scabbard, and he lashed out at the musician's wrist with the brief power of a fanned flame. When it receded, Autor rubbed his stinging wrist as the tool had clattered down. Fakir demanded,"Have you ever even held a sword before?"

There wasn't much Autor could do but glance aside and mutter, "Well, no..."

"Then don't go leaping into situations that could get you killed. Not that you'll have a chance to," Fakir said, more definitely than he felt. He paused, then relented. "Look, as far as I'm concerned, if we have time for a sightseeing trip, go ahead and take one. But only if we have time." He did have to acknowledge Autor's help, if grudgingly. He had worked tirelessly in the interest of perfecting Fakir's work to the required level. Setting the sword down, he added a final note of caution. "We aren't going to get involved in anything, though."

Autor sighed, and nodded. He cast his wrist a faintly annoyed look, as if it was the limbs fault that it ached. He had not been entirely serious, but then, it had been far from a complete joke. "Fine. How about we just get ourselves where we need to be?" Fakir waved an inviting hand at the door of the study, his mouth still a tight line even as he agreed.

Autor opened it, and gasped, "So, you _are_ still around?"

* * *

Drosselmeyer stared, tilting his head wildly to peer up at them. He needed to, as he had made himself at home in Fakir's chair. "Oh, hello, boys. Lovely to see you again."

Fakir replied in a breathless growl, "What are you doing here?" He did not especially care for any answer, because he knew he would not like it, but he had to at least count it as a kind of preparation to inform whatever action he would choose to take.

"Well, I'm not sure. Isn't it delightful?" Drosselmeyer drawled, and immediately popped to his feet again, leaping forward to stand directly before them. They both stepped away from the doorway on either side of him, as if to flank him, but he hardly seemed to feel trapped. He beamed. "But I just thought I would stop by to see how you were doing, hmm?"

Autor crossed his arms, tilting his head at a decidedly more sane angle. He regarded Drosselmeyer with reluctant respect, but his thin smile was uninterrupted. He took a step forward, and the author faced him with a shallow, mocking bow. "Yes, boy?"

"Well, I was just wondering what you thought of our story," Autor sounded perfectly humble, but Fakir didn't miss his pride, and sent him an unpleasant look over Drosselmeyer's shoulder. He ignored it, waiting contentedly as if the reply was foregone.

"Not much has happened, has it? Perhaps you need a little help." The old man sniffed haughtily. "You can't make a story out of grammatical corrections, you know."

"I've done more than-!" Autor shouted, only to be cut off as Fakir stepped between them. He tried to push around the other boy, but Fakir was unshakeable, and Autor's brow lowered in sharp frustration. He might have felt betrayed, because for all his faults, Drosselmeyer was still the most skilled writer he had ever read. It was his own life's work, no matter how short that had been so far, to match it. He could not have asked for that kind of recognition, but he had not thought to be so brutally shot down. He sneered, unearthing a comment that probably should have been left buried. "At least I was never beaten by my own characters. What kind of writer lacks that kind of control?"

"Autor, shut up," Fakir instructed, layering the command with thin calmness. If Autor's taunt had gotten to him along with its intended target, he didn't show it.

In fact, the intended target was equally unfazed, coughing pointedly, "Now, you see, about that... Don't you think it's time something should be done?" He fixed Fakir with a stern glare. "Here, you're still taking this much, much too seriously. Relax, have fun with it!" Drosselmeyer chirped, and leaned close with a carefree wave of his hands. He whispered right into Fakir's ear.

"If it's too much if a problem for you, I do think I can come up with something. I hope you'll thank me properly."

Fakir stared straight back at him, their reflections bouncing back between each others' eyes, and eventually ripped away. His voice was low and burnt-out. "Enough."

Drosselmeyer was dangerous, even now, and he had held free rein over all of them for too long. Fakir was past the point of tolerating it, but he would prove beyond anyone's doubt, including his own, that he could master this craft. A peculiar bitterness crept over him, and despite his surety that he had made it somehow, it seemed to be coming from somewhere else. Somewhere else was the only good place for the author to be, too, he decided darkly. In that same somewhere else where the hatred of him had been born. He closed his eyes resolutely, summoning up the strength to send Drosselmeyer there as he roughly pushed the chair away from the desk. He did not even bother to sit down, but merely wrote as he was, and the words leaped to him so easily that he could have been watching them in a circus performance. They seemed to be having enough fun for that themselves as his writing became more intense.

"Fakir, what are you writing?" Autor peeked over the young writer's shoulder quizzically, scanning the words with methodical speed. His frown deepened as he read, and he said nervously, "That might not be such a good idea." But he didn't even know if Fakir could hear him.

_That spider has no castle of his own. He spins his tragic web, and perhaps other spiders would follow along, but no one else. He would not find it such any easy thing to bend others to his stories, now that he was out of reach of any story's creation and powerless to interfere in the course of writing. His words would never hurt anyone anymore..._

He wrote on, detailing the spider's banishment, and strongly wishing that he could have squashed Drosselmeyer out of existence as easily as a literal arachnid. The old man's face changed, he stared at his hands and began to chortle eagerly. He hopped neatly, three times, and accented each neat motion with a clap, until at last he landed, pressing his heels together. His cloak swirled, taking up most of the small study, and he swept low in a bow. "Haha, how very interesting, indeed. Thank you... Fakir, isn't it...?" Before he was even able to straighten, he seemed to dissipate.

Drosselmeyer was truly gone.

That gratitude had chilled Fakir's excitement, helping it to slowly fade. He sank back into the chair, trembling and panting with the exertion of a swift runner. He braced his knuckles against the desk, and kept them in place long after they had turned white. He did not have anything like relief in his heart, just a frightening satisfaction, self-directed fear, rough-hewn determination. Autor pulled his swimming head above the surface.

"That was quite impressive, Fakir. But still not what we need."


End file.
